


The Brendon/Spencer fic of doom

by fictionalaspect



Series: Unfinished, Abandoned, Snippets, Bits and Pieces [1]
Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, BDSM, Canon Compliant, Exhibitionism, Kink Negotiation, Kink Shame, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer has no idea if he's passing Brendon's test; he has no idea what Brendon's evaluating him <i>for</i>. His head hurts from too many wordless conversations, and unlike when this sort of thing happens with Ryan, he has no idea what it is they aren't saying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brendon/Spencer fic of doom

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been floating around my Google Docs folder (under exactly this name) in one form or another for almost four years. At one point I posted the first 10,000 words of this as a notfic; this is the 20k version. This is essentially my first draft of an idea that would later become Amateur Cartography. That fic is a much better story than this one, but this is never going to get finished, so I think it's time to make that official. It was written four years ago, and it shows, but there are still a few scenes in this that I really enjoy.

Spencer winces as he lifts his bag onto his shoulder, the heavy weight making his stomach clench uneasily. He tries to think of something calming, breathes deep and easy but movement of his feet on the pavement still makes his whole body tighten up, reacting against the rising nausea. His headache is mostly gone by now, just a heavy throbbing behind his temples and between his eyes. The bus is idling on a side street next to the hotel, the heat of the city swirling around him. The sharp tang of exhaust from the bus is thick in the air.

Spencer tries, and fails, to remember what city they’re in now—Philadelphia, maybe, or something on the east coast, with busy, cramped streets and swiftly moving crowds. Ryan’s taking too long, opening his duffel on the sidewalk, gesturing at the driver, and Spencer bites his tongue against the urge to snap at him. He’s been waiting all day for a chance to lie down on a surface that wasn’t rumbling underneath him. It feels like every second that passes is winding him tighter and tighter, but, he reminds himself, it’s not Ryan’s fault. There’s no excuse for Spencer to take his hangover out on Ryan.

The lobby is large, ostentatious, when they finally manage to collect everyone and herd them through the heavy glass doors. There’s a plush carpet in shades of red and gold and everything is dark wood, clean lines and tall vases filled with unidentifiable flowers. Spencer would be honestly impressed at the sheer luxury of the place if he wasn’t so damn tired. A uniformed porter materializes next to him, touches his cap and tries to take his bag. Spencer just waves him off, as usual, striding across the lobby to where Zack is checking them in. He doesn’t like people touching his things if he can help it, no matter how much his stomach protests at the extra weight.

Zack hands him a keycard from a paper folio, leaning over to hand a duplicate one to Brendon. Spencer glances at the number embossed on the top in gold lettering and picks up his bag again, hoisting it onto his shoulder as he heads for the elevators. Brendon shuffles in next to him before the doors close, bumping into Spencer’s shoulder companionably but staying mostly silent. If Spencer could verbalize anything more than water or sleep, he would thank Brendon for the wide berth he’s giving him.

Spencer knows he’s been a bitch all day, but it’s a knee jerk reaction. There’s some part of him that all the conditioning in the world won’t change. It’s taking everything in him to keep his mouth shut and not snap at everything that moves or makes noise. Or breathes.

Brendon beats him out of the glass-fronted elevator once it dings to a stop, pausing for a moment in front of the numbered signs, leg jittering faintly, before making a decisive left. Spencer follows blindly. He considers counting the number of windows and doors, anything to distract himself from the churning in his gut, but it’s a long hallway and he gives it up after he passes five.

Brendon finally comes to a stop near the end of the hallway, tugging the keycard out of his front pocket and working the lock. Spencer pushes the door open and takes in the small sitting room, a kitchenette in one corner, a door leading to a large bathroom in shades of cream and scarlet with a deep tub and thick towels. He drops his duffel on the floor thankfully and stands there, feeling the tension leave his shoulders by degrees.

Spencer is going to nap. He’s going to nap and then he’s going to take a long motherfucking shower and then he’s going to find some food that hasn’t been heated up in a microwave, and possibly a beer or two to take the edge off his hangover. He’s considering his plan of attack—sleep first? Shower first? Shower now and then again, later?—when Brendon pushes open the veranda-style doors leading to the bedroom area.

“Shit, dude, call Zack,” Brendon yells from the bedroom. “They gave us a king by accident.”

Spencer sighs, pulling out his phone from his pocket and wearily hitting speed dial. Fucking figures that they would have to drag their shit all the way downstairs again.

Zack answers on the second ring. “If this is about the room—“

“Wait. Hold up.” Spencer frowns. “Fuck you, you knew about this?”

“They just told me. I’m trying to fix it—No,” Spencer can hear him talking to someone else, muttering angrily, “ _those_ aren’t our reservations, they were made on the third of June, not May—listen dudes, hang tight, I’ll call you back when I’ve got it all figured out.” The call ends and Spencer shoves the phone back in his pocket, walking towards Brendon in the other end of the suite.

“He’s going to call us back,” Spencer says, letting himself fall face first into the mattress. He doesn’t care if it messes up the bedsheets of this room that is no longer technically theirs. The hotel staff is just going to have to deal.

“What?” Brendon says. “Did you call him?”

“He’s like, trying to fix it.” Spencer’s reply comes out muffled. He’s too tired to move his head.

Spencer can feel his eyes slipping closed right as his phone begins to vibrate loudly under his hip. He groans and rolls onto his back but before he can figure out how to make his limbs work again, Brendon grabs it out of his front pocket with nimble fingers.

“You—fuck you, Brendon, that could have been my dick,” Spencer grumbles, batting his hands in Brendon's general direction, a few seconds too late. Brendon sidles away on the bed and Spencer’s left slapping awkwardly at the air.

“Seriously?” Brendon’s saying into the phone. “Seriously dude. That’s. Spencer might kill me in my sleep, I’m not okay with that. He’s going to make me sleep in the bathtub, dude.”

“What?” Spencer says. “You don’t have to sleep in the bathtub. Because we’re not staying in this room. Right? Brendon?”

Brendon waves his hand in Spencer’s direction, a lazy flapping motion intended to mean _shut up_.

“You’re fucking kidding. No shit, huh?” Brendon holds the phone away from his head for a second, turning to Spencer with a mournful look. “There’s nothing else. They’re booked solid for the night. It’s this or a queen size.”

Spencer shuffles on the bed, getting close enough to whack Brendon’s shoulder. “Give me my _phone_ ,” he grumbles. There has to be a way. Spencer isn't going down without a fight.

Brendon shrugs and hands him the phone.

"Do Ryan and Jon have to share?" Spencer demands. "Or is it just our room? I don't--make them take this one. I want my own bed."

"They sucked it up last time," Zack says. He's not angry, precisely, but he sounds like he doesn't have a lot of time for Spencer's current attitude. "Got real close and personal. Didn't complain, either and now it's your turn. Stop being a bitch, Spencer." Zack pauses for a moment. "It's this or the bus," he threatens, and _fuck_ no. Spencer is all set with that.

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he says, finally. "Fine. It's. It's cool. We'll get over it. I'm--I need to sleep now."

"I know, princess." Zack replies blandly, hanging up on him before Spencer can reply.

Brendon doesn't look at Spencer as he gets up off the bed, ruffling through his bag for something. "I'm going to go out for a bit," he says, grabbing a jacket. "I'll turn the lights off." His shoulders are set, rigid.

"Okay," Spencer says dully. He should really move, and do things like take off his shoes, and crawl under the covers. He really should.

Spencer hears the muted click of the hotel door and sighs.

He kind of feels like a dick, honestly. If he could verbalize anything right now past the pounding in his head, he would have explained that it's not that he has a problem sharing with a bed with guys, as a rule, or Brendon, in particular. He’s shared enough beds with Ryan, for fuck’s sake. Brendon should know this by now, know that it isn’t personal but apparently that’s too much to ask.

Spencer's problem with sharing beds is that even though it's usually a big bed, Spencer's never really sure where the boundaries are. He always ends up sleeping in this cramped ball, afraid he's going to be the one to takes up the whole bed while he's sleeping. He doesn't want to make it awkward so he just ends up getting shitty sleep, trying make sure he doesn't infringe on someone else's space or rub up against them or something. It's a control thing. Spencer just can’t relax.

It's also that Spencer spent all day dreaming of being able to stretch out and throw all of his limbs out in a starfish shape and not touch anything. He's sick and tired of being cramped in his bunk and he's been obsessing over this one thing, all day, fixating on it. Having to share space with anyone, right now, is upsetting. It's not Brendon. Spencer wants to explain, he does, but Brendon's already gone and it seems pointless.

He closes his eyes and falls asleep, fully clothed, instead.

 

*  
Spencer wakes up to a warm breeze on his face and the sound of rain. Brendon must have left a window open, Spencer thinks hazily, blinking slowly as his brain adjusts back to wakefulness. The hotel room is shaded in pale half-light, the warm breeze of summer soft on his face. Spencer can hear the sounds of the city but they're muted under the _tap-hiss_ of rain on the pavement outside his window. He drifts for a while, barely moving. The room is hot, the air conditioning unit silent and still under the window.

Spencer thinks about getting up and closing the window, turning the AC on, but he spends so much time in enclosed spaces, bus to venue to restaurants and back again. It's unexpectedly soothing to just lie in bed and feel the air on his face, thick with moisture and smelling like ozone from the rain.

Spencer eventually turns his head, glancing at the red numbers on the clock and wincing. It's past six; he needs to get up now if he wants to get to sleep sometime before the middle of the night. It's not like his band keeps anything close to reasonable sleeping hours, but Spencer likes to at least make the effort.

He drags himself out of bed and heads to the bathroom, leaving the lights off. It's just--it's so still, quiet, and Spencer maybe wants to enjoy the hushed twilight for a little while longer before he needs to interact with anyone again. He considers leaving the lights off in the bathroom, too, but he changes his mind when he steps into the tub and realizes he can barely see. He leans out, flipping the switch, and the small room is suddenly flooded with light. The shower is hot and strong and Spencer rolls his neck under the spray and feels the rest of him wake up a little.

He hears Brendon bang the outside door right after he shuts the water off. Spencer wraps a towel around his waist and throws another one around his head like a turban, leaning outside the open bathroom door.

"Hey, Spence," Brendon says, toeing his shoes off. He's absolutely soaked, jeans squelching against the carpet. He walks over to Spencer with a grin and shakes off like a dog, wet hair slapping against Spencer's chin. All Spencer can smell is cigarettes and wet leather and he makes a face, shoving Brendon away. "Dude, don't." Spencer says, walking back towards his stuff. "Also, that shit will kill you."

For a few seconds Spencer considers apologizing for earlier, but he quickly scraps the idea. Brendon always forgives Spencer for being Spencer, even when he probably shouldn't. Bringing it up will just make Brendon feel awkward and Spencer feel worse.

Brendon's got a piece of paper clenched in one hand and he sits down on the small couch in the front of the suite, smoothing it out flat against the coffee table. "What's going to kill me, Spencer Smith?"

"Smoking," Spencer answers, zipping up his jeans.

"I wasn't smoking." Brendon frowns at the piece of paper, pulling out a pen from his pocket and clicking it loudly.

Spencer leans over the back of the couch, smelling his hair obnoxiously. Brendon smells kind of good, actually, but there's still the strong, sharp tang of tobacco. "Uh-huh."

"Whatever." Brendon shrugs him off. "We're getting Thai, what do you want?"

"Um, Red Curry. No, Green Curry. Shit, which is the one with the--"

"Red Curry." Brendon nods. "It's the Red Curry. Don't get the Massaman, that shit is wack."

"Yeah, it is," Spencer agrees. "We getting any, uh, Tod Mun Pla? Those little fish cake things? I think that's what it's called."

Brendon nods, marking menu options with wide, elliptical circles. "Okay, yeah. And uh, Ryan wants Tom Yum with noodles, and Jon wants Pad Thai, I'm thinking shrimp?"

"Shrimp is good." Spencer nods again. "And beer. Will they bring us beer?" Spencer pauses. "I don't even--what state are we in? Can they do that here?" Spencer has vague memories of both food AND beer arriving at their hotel rooms at the same time. It was awesome.

"I think that was Arkansas. We can send Zack if it stops pouring out. Or if we offer to buy his beer."

"I'll buy his beer," Spencer says immediately. His stomach's mostly better but he's going to need something to take the edge off. "I will buy him all the beer in the world if he brings me back some Singha. Or Tiger beer. Or Corona. Or Coors. Or--"

"I get it, you want some beer." Brendon snorts. "I'm going to go call this in from Ryan and Jon's room. Come up when you're dressed, we're going to roll a few and watch this Mythbusters marathon."

"Awesome," Spencer says. "Seriously.” Brendon goes to leave and Spencer pauses, because something is wrong with this picture, but he’s not sure what. It takes him a minute to figure it out.

“Wait,” He calls out toward Brendon’s back. “Are you going to—you’re all wet, dude.”

“Oh,” Brendon says, looking down. “I was just going to—I can wait. If you like, need your space.”

It’s stiff, awkward, and maybe Spencer should have apologized when he thought of it if Brendon is going to pull this kind of shit.

“Um, no,” Spencer points out. “You’re soaking wet. I’m not—it’s your room too.” He ruffles Brendon’s hair again and then drops a clean towel over his head. “Go dry off, I'm sorry I was a dick earlier.”

Brendon raises an eyebrow, his face peeking out from under the towel. He looks mildly ridiculous and Spencer can’t help the grin that cracks across his face. It’s hard to stay mad at Brendon. Spencer hadn't even been mad, precisely, just tired and angry and frustrated and Brendon sort of got caught in the epicenter.

“Yeah?” Brendon says. “You’re not going to like, throw things at me if I get too close? Tell me in great detail about my many character flaws?”

“You’re confusing me with Ryan,” Spencer says, searching in his bag for his razor and heading back into the bathroom. “He’s got a list.”

“Of my character flaws?”

“Of everyone’s character flaws. Mine is about two pages long.”

“It is not,” Brendon says, wandering back by the open bathroom door, now stark naked with the towel still over his head. “Mine has to be longer than yours. Have you seen my other bag? I need clean underwear.”

Spencer wets his razor and makes a face at the mirror, trying to decide what he wants to shave. His neck is getting a little ridiculous. He should probably just clean up a bit at the jawline. “You say that like I keep track of your stuff,” he calls back to Brendon. “I didn’t even know you had another bag.”

Brendon wanders back into view from the opposite direction, this time stuffing himself into jeans, sans underwear. Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Are those Ryan’s?”

Those are totally Ryan’s pants that Brendon is now wearing without underwear. Spencer is positive of this fact, because they were on Ryan yesterday. “That’s gross,” Spencer points out helpfully. “How do those even fit you? You have tiny little legs.”

Brendon shrugs a shirt on and grabs his key, ignoring him with a smirk. The pants flap around his feet. “I’m going to go order, I’m starving,” he says.

“Ryan is going to kill you, you know.”

“So don’t tell him!” Brendon calls through the door just before it slams shut again.

“Your death sentence,” Spencer mutters to himself as he picks up the razor. He shrugs at the mirror and wonders idly how long it's going to take Ryan to notice.

*

It takes Ryan three hours.

As far as Spencer can tell, he only notices because Brendon is bending down in front of the TV and manages to nearly moon all of them with plumber’s crack. Spencer spends a moment wishing that he could have a day—just one day—where he wasn’t forced to see some dude's naked ass.

(As asses go, Brendon's isn't bad, but it's the principle of the thing.)

“Brendon,” Jon says mildly, examining a shrimp speared on his chopstick. “Pants.”

“Yeah,” Ryan mumbles, mouth full of noodles. He’s stretched out on his stomach on the bed, face almost directly in his bowl. Spencer isn’t sure why he’s even bothering to use chopsticks. “We don’t need to see that shit, Brendon.” He slurps another noodle and frowns. “Wait. Fuck you, are those my jeans?” His eyes get comically wide and Spencer snorts into his curry.

“Bastard.” Ryan says, with feeling. “You're doing my laundry next time.”

“C’mon Ross, it’s not like I jerked off in them. Mine were all wet.” Brendon settles back against the base of the bed, cross legged on the floor, his various dishes spread out in front of him. He appears to spend a moment contemplating his options, then clicks his chopsticks together decisively.

Ryan leans down over the edge of the bed to glare at him. “I don't trust you, you know.”

Brendon decides on the yellow dish first, spearing something that looks like okra with a chopstick and popping it into his mouth. “Add it to my character flaw list, then,” he mumbles through his mouthful. “Talks too much. Jizzes in other people’s pants.”

"Character flaw list?" Ryan says. "What?"

"Nevermind," Spencer says.

“You know,that actually happened to me once," Jon says, sipping his beer. "With TAI. It was kinda awkward the next morning? My pants were all sticky and I couldn't, like, figure out why."

“Wow.” Spencer says, into the ensuing silence.

"So, Mythbusters?" Jon says, unconcerned.

*

"See," Brendon says thoughtfully, one hand rummaging at the bottom of the Doritos bag. "I don't know if I can buy that. 80 psi seems kind of low to make someone's head explode."

Spencer sucks on the end of the joint, considering. He and Brendon are leaning up against the headboard of the bed in their hotel room, their shoulders touching. "We're watching Mythbusters," he points out, even though right now they're actually watching a commerical about how Sylvan Learning Centers can help your child reach their full potential. Spencer wonders for a moment how he would have turned out, if his parents had been the type of parents to believe that crap. He's pretty okay with where he is, but he's also pretty sure that he's not living up to his full potential.

"I'm pretty sure it's their job to expose urban myths and shit," Spencer eventually continues. "I don't think they're lying to you."

"Yeah, but that means you could like, explode my head at any time. 80 psi is not that much pressure, dude. It would be the cleanest murder ever--there's no murder weapon, just an air tank." Brendon sucks orange dorito-dust from his finger tips and raises an eyebrow meaningfully at Spencer. "You'd probably get away scot-free."

"I'm not going to--you worry about the weirdest shit," Spencer says. "I'm not going to try to stealth-explode your head."

He relights the joint and takes another drag, then passes it over to Brendon. A few flakes of ash land on the bedspread and Spencer wipes at them with clumsy hands. His body feels too large, too slow. "How do you even know what psi means, I don't know that shit."

Brendon takes the joint with relish and inhales deeply. When Brendon gets high he has a habit of tilting his wrists too far and spreading his fingers really wide, joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger. It has an overall effect of making him look a little like Liza Minelli, in Spencer's opinion. There's a lot of flair.

Brendon grins, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from the side of his mouth. "I have a degree in this shit," he says. The dramatic impact is ruined by the coughing fit that overtakes him on the last syllable.

"You do not," Spencer grumbles, turning the sound up so he can hear the exposition. "Or, I mean, you do, but so do I. And we have a diploma, not a degree. A degree is what you get in college. Which you did not attend."

"Jon did," Brendon points out, when he can talk again. "He's educated. I bet he knows what psi stands for." Brendon pronounces educated with 2 syllables too many, drawing out the vowels, and Spencer snorts.

"Brendon, can you--fuck you, you totally finished that joint, didn't you."

Brendon shrugs, not looking over from where he's stubbing the roach out in a glass hotel ashtray. "Tough luck, sugarplum. Hey, hey, how many pillows do you have over there?"

"Um," Spencer manages, thrown off by the conversational whiplash. He rummages behind his back, unwilling to move more than necessary. "Two? Yes. There are two pillows over here."

"Okay," Brendon says. He leans over Spencer to get to the room phone, resting all of his weight on Spencer's lap, his chest on Spencer's thighs. Spencer rolls his eyes but doesn't push him away. It took Spencer a little while to get used to Brendon's weird lack of personal space, but now he's used to the sort of casual touching that Brendon seems to feel is his due.

"Hello? Hiiii," Brendon drawls, letting his tone warm. Spencer will bet ten to one there's a girl working the desk downstairs. "Yeah, do you have any extra pillows? No, I mean yes, we have four up here, but I think we might need one more--oh, the closet?"

"Spence," Brendon hisses, one hand over the receiver. "Can you check the closet, she says she thinks there should be an extra."

"You're laying on me," Spencer points out.

"You're so needy," Brendon says, but he raises his upper body so Spencer can wiggle out from under him. Spencer crosses the room and tugs the closet door open, but there's nothing inside except for six empty hangers, evenly spaced.

"No," Brendon says into the phone. "No, I'm sorry, there's nothing in there. Can I come down--oh, you're going to send someone up? Okay, we're in Room--oh, shit, right, you know that already. Awesome. Thanks." Brendon hangs up with a click and makes grabby hands when Spencer comes back to the bed (their bed, which is still kind of weird, but Spencer's kind of high, so it's okay) with a beer in each hand.

"So, was she hot?" Spencer asks, twisting the top off. He wonders if he can flick it across the room and hit the lampshade. Brendon probably can. He's got good aim.

"Maybe," Brendon says, shrugging. "We just needed another pillow. If I wanted to hit on her I would have gone downstairs."

"Okay," Spencer says. Brendon's so tiny. He's having trouble believing Brendon seriously needs three pillows to sleep, but whatever.

Spencer gets through half his beer before he hears a knock at the door. He's momentarily confused--Jon and Ryan were fast asleep when he and Brendon snuck out an hour ago--but then he remembers the pillow from downstairs.

"Yo," Spencer says, nudging Brendon. "The door."

"What---oh," Brendon says. Spencer can sort of see the door from where he's lying on the bed. He realizes, abruptly, how much the room must reek of weed.

The guy who brought the pillow up is wearing a hotel polo and baggy jeans. He smirks when Brendon answers the door, a slight haze drifting into the hallway, and Spencer gets the feeling he's just waiting to see if Brendon will invite him inside to get high.

Brendon doesn't offer, though, just mumbles something about "thanks man, appreciate it, you know, neck support," and goes to close the door. Just before that, though, the guy catches sight of Spencer and Spencer can see his eyebrows fly up as the door swings closed.

"Huh." Spencer says, as Brendon walks back over to the bed. "Do you think he recognized us?" Spencer hopes not. He wants to eat breakfast in peace tomorrow.

"Um," Brendon says, "Not really, no."

"Are you--" Spencer starts, then cuts himself off. Brendon's blushing. Brendon's actually blushing, and it's kind of unexpected and a little hilarious. Spencer almost wants to laugh but he tamps the feeling down. Brendon has these weird lines, sometimes, and Spencer's never really been able to predict where they'll come out.

Okay, so maybe it had looked slightly compromising, Spencer stretched out on the bed and Brendon needing more pillows and the fact that there's only one bed in the room for the both of them. Spencer can see where that dude could maybe draw some conclusions.

"You know," Spencer points out, "the Internet thinks you're gay. I'm not sure why you're surprised."

"Whatever," Brendon says, dropping the pillow on the bed and heading into the bathroom. "I'm actually fucking tired, do you mind if we turn off the TV and shit?"

Spencer glances at the clock on the bedside table and shit, it's almost 3am. It's definitely time for bed.

"No," Spencer says, turning the TV off with the remote and then getting up to dig through his bags for his toothbrush. He has a brief moment of internal struggle over whether he should wear a t-shirt to bed--he normally doesn't, but then, he's normally not sharing a bed with Brendon--but he eventually decides he doesn't care.

Brendon comes out of the bathroom--in a t-shirt and briefs, Spencer notices, and huh, that's kind of weird too--and starts pulling the covers out from under the pillows, lifting them in the middle and sliding the extra pillow directly into the center of the bed.

"What?" Spencer says, mystified. "Seriously, Brendon, what the hell are you doing?"

"Just, you know," Brendon says.

"No," Spencer says. "I actually have no fucking clue."

"So like," Brendon says, gesturing. "That's my side, and that's your side, and you know."

"...Wow," Spencer says finally. That's. Wow. There's a lot of things Spencer wants to say to that, most of them starting with I think you need therapy, but it's 3am and there's a time and a place and this probably isn't it.

"Oookay then," Spencer says, crawling into bed. The thing is, maybe Brendon's on to something. Spencer doesn't like that Brendon apparently needs to construct a barricade in order to sleep in a bed with him--seriously, what the fuck, he doesn't have cooties-- but maybe this way he'll be able to relax. The pillow is taking up that weird no-man's land.

Spencer wonders drowsily if maybe he's the weird one; maybe this is something normal dudes do when they share a bed together. Spencer doesn't know. He's slept with Ryan more times than he can count but usually he just ends up with like, an elbow in the face or something when he wakes up. It's never even occurred to him that maybe they weren't normal.

He had to share with Jon once, though, way back when he first joined the band. Jon didn't seem to care. Then again, Spencer's pretty sure that Jon was shit-faced at the time and maybe that's not the best example, either.

Spencer falls asleep, pondering and listening to Brendon's sniffling little breaths.

*

Spencer wakes up in the middle of the night and he's suddenly wide awake, jolting panic humming through his veins, making his legs twitch suddenly into movement.

For a second he's convinced they've slept through an alarm, that they're supposed to be up and awake and at the interview, but then he looks around and realizes he can still see the streetlights shining weakly through the slats in the heavy blinds, that the hotel is silent and dark and still.

Spencer glances at the clock and it's barely six am. He lets out a slow breath, relaxing the muscles he just tensed, trying to come down from his fight or flight response. He rolls over onto his side and nearly jumps out of the bed because his sleep-fogged mind wasn't expecting anyone else to be there, but it's just Brendon. His eyelashes are fanned out over his cheeks and his mouth is slightly open where he's breathing rhythmically.

It's weird, for a second. Spencer isn't used to looking at someone in the dark like this; watching Brendon sleep feels oddly intimate. Despite the barrier pillow he's sort of spread out over the bed, most of the pillow actually underneath him, one arm flung out towards Spencer. Spencer rolls onto his back and just kind of zones out for a while, floating along and dozing, thinking about nothing in particular, colors and shapes and the long stretches of highway he'd spent most of yesterday watching out the window of the bus while they drove.

It's strange how certain things burn themselves into your head, he thinks woozily. There had been a moment where they'd slowed down with traffic and the late afternoon sun had peaked at just the right spot, silhouetting a lone telephone pole stretched out against the skyline. It had been almost painful, bright and seething and Spencer remembers wincing at the time, averting his eyes from the window and the glare. Now, though, he can't get it out of his head, the telephone poles stretched out against the too-bright sky, flaming red like a cross over the city. It's weird and leaves him feeling unsettled and he doesn't know why he's thinking of it now. It was just a telephone pole.

He's falling back into sleep when something about Brendon's breathing changes and Spencer perks up again, half-alert and listening. He’s not really worried—he’s not awake enough to be worried, honestly—but Brendon’s breath is loud in the quiet room and it sounds off, all of a sudden, the cadence shifting to a more syncopated beat. There’s a shuffling noise and Spencer assumes Brendon’s just moving around in his sleep, getting more comfortable, but it doesn’t stop within any reasonable period of time, and.

Yeah.

Spencer bites his lip and sends silent beams of hate toward the hotel desk and wonders how awkward this is going to be in the morning. He realizes he should probably just look over, confirm or deny his suspicions, shake Brendon awake if he’s—if that’s what he’s doing. Brendon probably won’t even remember it in the morning. Spencer’s curious, though, because it doesn’t really sound like Brendon’s jacking off. There’s just a sort of slow shifting noise and every once in a while there will be a little hitch in his breathing, a soft noise, unformed. If Spencer didn't know better he'd almost think it sounded like Brendon was crying, a little, except he's pretty sure he isn't, but it's that sort of sound-- unguarded, slightly raw.

Spencer finally gets too curious and he rolls onto his side carefully, keeping his eyes closed, feigning sleep. Spencer's actually uncomfortably awake, a little keyed up. Brendon just keeps making these noises, little breathy gasps that are barely audible, and Spencer's uncomfortably aware of how he's straining to hear them, his body tense. It’s different like this, sleeping next to Brendon in the darkness. Spencer doesn’t want to make a sound, he just wants to watch and listen and—yeah, okay, that’s kind of fucked up. He’s kind of fucked up.

He’s seen Brendon naked hundreds of times, lived with him day and in day out and he’s never---Brendon’s just a friend. Spencer’s never looked at him that way, and he doesn’t know why this is happening, why he suddenly wants to get closer, smell the sleep on Brendon’s skin.

Spencer can feel his face heating and he keeps his eyes closed until he can’t stand it anymore, until he has to know or it feels like he’ll explode. He breathes slowly, steadily, and slits his eyes open.

The first thing he sees is Brendon's hand, curled around the corner of the pillow he's draped himself over. He watches as Brendon's fingers stretch out, clutching and tensing slowly around the corner, fingers digging into the give of the fabric. It's weird how sexual it is, and Spencer stares at Brendon's wrists and watches as the corded muscles in his forearm tense and release.

Brendon's eyes are still closed and Spencer's absolutely sure he's sleeping; his face is slack, relaxed, his jaw loose and mouth open. Brendon looks almost vulnerable like this, and Spencer doesn't think he's faking--Brendon would be more obvious, more over-the-top if he was just pretending to sleep. For all his bravado Brendon's pretty easy to read. He's a good actor but he isn't perfect, and this is--this is something else, something loose and open and secret.

Brendon gives a soft little sigh and Spencer watches his hips move under the blanket, a languid jerk and that shuffling noise again and Spencer realizes Brendon's grinding his hips down into the pillow and he can feel his face heat even further and he bites his lip again.

He shouldn't be watching this.

He wants to look away but he's fascinated by the tiny frown line between Brendon's eyebrows, the way the tip of his tongue is peeking out through his teeth. Spencer had always assumed Brendon would be loud, brash, forward, when he thought of Brendon at all. He's not sure what to do with this Brendon who is lazily rolling his hips into the pillow, body soft and pliant, eyelashes delicate against his cheeks.

Spencer just watches, fascinated and freaked out, and Brendon's hair is in his face, catching on his eyelashes and Spencer reaches a hand out before he realizes it--he just wants to see--and Brendon jerks away right before he makes contact and Spencer yanks his hand back and oh shit, oh shit, what if Brendon was awake and Spencer can feel his heart rate speed up, his stomach dropping.

But Brendon just snuffles into the pillow, blinking, his eyes barely open. He mumbles something and rolls over, away from Spencer and his breathing evens out within thirty seconds, back to that deep, slow rhythmic inhale, a slight wheeze on the exhale and Brendon sort of needs to cut out the weed, Spencer thinks. He waits a minute and then gets up to piss, studiously ignoring the fact that he's half hard. He drinks a glass of water quickly and then another. He avoids his eyes in the bathroom mirror before turning the light out in the bathroom and slipping back under the sheets.

*

They're so busy the next day and Spencer's so distracted he doesn't even remember anything until sound check, and even then it's less of a full-blown memory and more of a spark, a sort of oh, that happened, that slides out of his head almost as soon as it arrives.

Spencer watches him a little more closely than normal during sound check, maybe, but nothing's different. Brendon's still a little loud, a little awkward. There's nothing to suggest he remembers waking up last night.

Spencer swigs water from the bottle resting on the floor next to his kit and feels grateful for small mercies.

*

Spencer drops down heavily on the couch next to Ryan, feeling the worn springs creak and shift under his weight. Ryan's reading something thick with a broken spine, a pen tucked behind his ear. Spencer stares at the wall for a while, listening to the distant commotion coming from behind the closed doors of the green room, the near-constant bustle of the venue waking up for the night. He didn't sleep well and the space behind his eyes feels dull.

Ryan's elbow jabs him in the side and it takes Spencer a few seconds longer than normal to react to it. He turns his head to glare at Ryan, blinking.

"You're all weird," Ryan says, frowning. "Are you high? Did you steal my weed?"

"I'm just tired," Spencer says. "My head hurts, I need some Advil or something."

Ryan nods, pulling his pen out from behind his ear to underline something particularly salient. Spencer wonders if he's actually comprehending what he's reading, or just underlining at random to make it look like he is. Both options seem equally likely.

"So how was Brendon," Ryan says, after a pause.

"Huh?" Spencer says, pulse speeding up. He's caught in a moment of what the fuck, ready to deny anything and everything when Ryan clarifies "last time I had to share with him he kept me up all night. He kicks."

"Uh, fine, no, it was okay," Spencer says quickly, trying hard for casual. "I just couldn't sleep."

"That sucks," Ryan says. There's no inflection but Spencer's pretty sure Ryan's being serious, not sarcastic. "Jon and I just passed out, it was awesome. I feel like I slept for days."

"I know," Spencer points out. "You fell asleep on me."

"Right," Ryan says. "Right, I forgot about that."

"Yeah," Spencer says. His head is pounding but one thought from last night keeps swirling around in his brain, keeping coming back to the surface and if he's going to ask Ryan, he needs to do it now, while the others aren't around. He bites his lip. "Hey, remember last time you had to share with Jon?"

"Yeah, and it was a queen," Ryan says, making a face. Spencer knows it's just for show because Ryan's dead to the world as soon as he's asleep. Jon isn't much better. Spencer doubts they were aware of each others' presence in the bed for longer than the thirty seconds it took them to pass out.

"Did you guys, like," Spencer pauses, uncertain how to frame his question so that Brendon doesn't look like a whackjob. "You guys slept on separate sides, right? Like we do?" Spencer doesn't know why but he feels a stong need to know if this is just Brendon's particular quirk or if it's like, something he missed during puberty, an unwritten law that he should have known. Not that Ryan would know, of course, but maybe Jon did the same thing when he had to share with Ryan.

"No," Ryan says. "I made him rub my feet and cuddle with me and sing me to sleep."

"Ha-ha," says Spencer. "I'm being serious."

"So am I," Ryan says, deadpan. Then, "Yeah, of course. Why?"

"No reason," Spencer says quickly.

"What, did you wake up to him humping your leg or something?"

"No," Spencer says, because shit, that's a little too close to the truth for Spencer's taste. "No, he just, he was really insistent about keeping a pillow like, in the middle. Of the bed."

Ryan's mouth quirks. "Seriously?" he says, voice monotone but his eyes amused. "Brendon seriously did that."

Spencer shrugs, helplessly.

"That's really middle school, dude." Ryan says. "He must think you have cooties."

"Shut up, your face has cooties," Spencer says.

Brendon and Jon bang through the door of the dressing room, noise spilling out behind them, then abruptly silencing when the door falls shut.

"Guys," Jon starts, "have you seen my--"

Ryan looks up from his book, motioning towards a table on the side of the room with a black bag perched near the edge. "It's in there. You guys left it here when you went out."

"Sweet," Jon says easily, grabbing his bag and digging through the bottom until he finds his camera case.

Spencer turns to Ryan again, eyebrow raised. "Since when do you pay attention to shit?"

Ryan shrugs. "Jon leaves a trail."

"Yeah, okay." Spencer tries to keep a straight face.

Brendon flops down on the couch, nestling his way between Spencer and Ryan. "What are we doing, mi amigos? Wait, is it--mi amigos? or mis amigos?"

Ryan ignores him, leaning forward. "Hey, Spencer, Spence, you remember that time with Brent and the--"

Spencer frowns, straining to follow Ryan's train of thought for a moment before he gets the connection. Ryan's doing that thing where he jumps three conversations back and forgets to inform the other party.

"Oh! Yeah, with the couch cushions, and, oh god," Spencer laughs. The memory is actually pretty funny, although he hadn't thought to connect it with Brendon. It's probably a good thing Brendon doesn't actually know what they're talking about.

Brendon raises an eyebrow mournfully at Jon, who's standing across the room fiddling with his camera. "I never have any idea what they're talking about when they do that," he says.

Jon shrugs. "Me neither. It's cool." Jon says. "They're all--" He waves a hand to indicate that he considers Ryan and Spencer to be a single entity. "C'mon, I want to take some pictures of you jumping off the stairwell, I've got my f-stops all set up."

Brendon places one hand on Spencer's shoulder, for balance, as he pushes up off the couch to stand and follow Jon. The contact is fleeting, but Brendon's hand is warm and solid through the thin material of Spencer's shirt. Spencer watches him leave, lets his gaze linger over Brendon's small shoulders and the set of his back and wonders, again, for the thousandth time today, if he didn't just dream it all. His subconscious is weird. It could happen.

"Huh," Ryan says.

"What?" Spencer says. "Ryan, what?"

"Nothing," Ryan says.

*

They make good time on the road the next day, so much so that they end up having a few unexpected hours off. They pass a few billboards on their way into town, something about some giant mall with like, IMAX screens and an ice skating rink and bars and shops and a Dave & Busters.

(“Holy shit,” Brendon had said. “Oh my god, you guys, we could get shitfaced and go ice skating.”

“No,” Ryan said, not even looking up from his fruit loops. “Veto'd, Brendon.”)

They make every effort to dress like normal dudes, sunglasses and ragged hoodies and their oldest, grossest tour jeans, which is why it's still frustrating when Brendon gets stopped 3 stores in. They've split up in order to discourage their chances of being recognized, but Spencer sees a bobbing ponytail out of the corner of his eye, coming closer with what seems like focused intent. He sighs forlornly at the shirt on the rack in front of him.

The girl ignores him though, heads straight for Brendon. "Hi," she says, "Hi, i'm really sorry to bother you..."

"No, it's okay," Brendon says, wincing a little and then smiling large and sudden to make up for it.

"It's just--aren't you that guy from the movie?"

"Movie?" Brendon says, confused.

"The one--you know, with Orlando Bloom, and. Midgets and things. A ring?"

"No," Brendon says. "No, i'm really sorry, but I'm actually not. I'm not Elijah Wood."

"Oh," the girl says, disappointed. "I'm sorry, you just--okay. Sorry!" She turns and and pulls out her phone, walking away without a backward glance.

"Shut up," Brendon says to Spencer, who is cracking up, leaning against the free-standing dressing room stall with something akin to hysteria. "It's not that funny, shut up."

"She thought you were Elijah Wood," Spencer says. "This will never not be funny."

Brendon frowns. "We don't even look alike," he says. "What the fuck, seriously."

Spencer peers at him, considering. "Maybe a little?" he says, finally. "With the glasses and the jacket and the--" he indicates Brendon's three-day growth of scruffy tour beard. "And you're both pretty small." Spencer can maybe see the resemblance if he squints. Maybe.

"If you tell Ryan and Jon about this, I will end you," Brendon says. "I will find an air tank and stealth-explode your head, I swear to god."

"Yeah, okay," Spencer says. Threats coming from Brendon just don't intimidate him anymore, for some reason. Spencer thinks it's because he grew, and Brendon did not. Brendon bringing up that joke from the other night makes him feel kind of strange though, everything in his body going a little more tense. He'd been working diligently on forgetting all about it but Spencer has to admit he's kind of been failing miserably in that regard. It catches him at odd moments, too, the sense that there's something else underneath Brendon's skin. Spencer doesn't know what to do with this new information and it's making him a little twitchy, a little off.

He paws through a few more racks, but nothing's really jumping out at him. He turns to find Brendon peering over his shoulder and nearly trips over him.

"Why do you do that," Spencer says. "One of these days i'm going to fall and crush you and you're going to break something."

"Body heat," Brendon says, "I get cold easily." Which doesn't even make sense because they're in the middle of a mall and Brendon's wearing a jacket, but whatever.

"Whatever," Spencer says. He shifts his shopping bags from hand to hand, trying to distribute the weight evenly. He had insisted on prioritizing, which meant they had made a beeline for the nearest electronics store, followed by one of those super-Targets to pick up tour necessities like socks and deodorant and water balloons.

("Oh man," Brendon had said, digging through the bargain bin at the GameStop. "Oh man, Flight of the Navigator, awesome. We're buying this."

"Okay, " Spencer had said. "I'm getting two new Xbox controllers, that one that Jon stepped on that time is all fucked up. The X button sticks."

"Yeah, okay," Brendon said, "It wouldn't happen to be the one you're using every time I kick your ass at Halo, is it?")

Now they're just sort of wandering around, dragging their bags behind them and wandering in and out of various high-fashion stores in the more upscale half of the mall. Spencer can easily afford everything in there, but he's starting to get sick of the suspicious looks the clerks are giving him and Brendon, like they're planning on shoplifting or possibly holding up the register.

Spencer catches sight of himself in a mirror and begins to think maybe the four of them should have at least shaved. His hair is kind of sticking up and both he and Brendon look in desperate need of a shower. It's perhaps not his finest moment, sartorially speaking.

"Okay, I'm bored," Brendon says suddenly, halfway between a Sharper Image and a Coach outlet. "What time is it? You want a beer?"

Spencer checks his watch. It's 1:23 pm. They have to be back at the bus by 4, and Zack's coming back to pick them up at 3:30.

"It's a little early," Spencer says.

"Um, it's not like we're going to do shots," Brendon says. "Besides, all those businessmen, they have martini lunches and shit. I say we go have a few beers and some nachos and then do some drunk impulse-shopping."

"I should probably be happy you're not still trying to convince me to go ice skating, huh."

"I really just want to see Ross fall on his ass, dude," Brendon tosses over his shoulder, leading the way towards a mexican restaurant with a sort of indoor open courtyard, sectioned off with wrought iron fencing and a fake hedge. The entire effect is a little strange, but there's a bar in the middle of the seating area and Spencer's pretty sure they'll serve them food right at the bar.

They drop their bags in a pile near the end of the bar and pull out their ID's, running through the process of procuring beer and food with a minimum of fuss. Brendon waits to continue the conversation until he's got his pint in front of him, rolling it back and forth between his hands slowly.

"No, really, I've been giving this a lot of thought," Brendon says.

"You lost me," Spencer says, drinking half his beer in one one swallow. He'd been a lot thirstier than he thought. Also, it's really fucking good beer. "What were we talking about, again?"

"Getting Ryan drunk and getting him in ice skates," Brendon says, straight faced. "Or roller skates, i'm not picky. As long as Shane is there to film it, we're golden. We can put it on youtube, it would go viral."

Spencer snickers, sudden and loud. He has to admit, it would be priceless.

There's few minutes of silence, but it's a comfortable one. Spencer's zoning out, just watching the flow of people past the restaurant when Brendon clears his throat. Spencer looks over and Brendon is carefully shredding his bar napkin, making a neat pile of the strips.

"Sooooo," Brendon says, trying hard for casual and, as usual, failing miserably. "Haley."

Spencer sighs. He knew Brendon was going to bring it up sooner than later. Spencer hasn't talked about it much with anyone besides Ryan, just sort of told his band the basics and left them to wonder about the details. He should have been expecting this sort of sneak attack all along. "What about her?"

"You guys aren't..."

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, it was just--we needed some time off. The distance, and--we're both young, you know? She's young."

"Like a break?" Brendon says.

"Permanent break, yeah," Spencer says. "It wasn't really working. For both of us." Spencer wants to feel something other than resignation, he really does, but he'd suspected a long time ago it wasn't really going to last between them. He wonders if it was maybe a self-fulfilling prophecy. It sucks without her, but there isn't the huge hole in his life that he was expecting, the sense that something vital and necessary is missing, and maybe that's his first clue that he made the right decision.

Brendon just nods, humming in agreement then perking up as their food arrives. He's had a string of girlfriends, some serious, some less so, in the past two years, but he still hasn't really seemed inclined to settle down with anyone, seems happy having these sort of half-casual relationships that he can pick up and drop at will. Spencer wonders, suddenly, about the other night, gets a brief sense-memory of Brendon's eyelashes against his cheek and forearms against the sheets but he pushes it down and away. Now is not the time, and anyway, as far as Spencer knows, Brendon only dates girls.

They've almost finished their second round of drinks when Jon and Ryan drift by the open bar, sort of walking aimlessly, then starting short when Brendon and Spencer call out to them. They head into the restaurant area and slide into seats at the bar, dropping their shopping bags on their growing pile next to Brendon. Spencer catches sight of a Sephora bag and laughs.

"Shut up, " Ryan says. "They have this organic shampoo I like, it's really hard to find." Ryan reaches up to adjust his hat, settling it more firmly on his head. He's somehow managing to pull off jeans, one of Brendon's old hoodies, a scarf with flowers on it, and a fedora and on Ryan, it looks absolutely natural and effortless. Spencer is momentarily jealous and then thinks better of it. He has a beard.

Jon just shrugs, like being forced to accompany Ryan into a Sephora for what was probably the better part of an hour is no great hardship to him. He orders something on tap and Ryan orders a martini.

"...Do you even like martinis?" Spencer says, eyebrow raised.

Ryan shrugs. "I'll find out, won't I?"

His drink comes, and Ryan sips it with a placid expression. Spencer waits a few beats. Ryan makes a face.

"....no," he says, looking vaguely disappointed.

Jon sighs and pushes his draft beer over towards Ryan, pulling the base of the martini glass toward him with two fingers.

"You guys are really married," Spencer points out. "Should I be concerned?"

"You can have my martini," Ryan says. "You don't need to get all jealous."

"I'm not jealous of your martini, I'm just saying. Someone has to point these things out."

Brendon drains the rest of his second beer, standing up and burping loudly.

"Guys, " Brendon says, "guys, hurry up and finish, I have a date with my credit card and some bad decisions. I only have an hour to buy something I'm going to regret tomorrow."

"Oh, well then," Spencer says, rolling his eyes. "By all means, lead the way."

 

*

"So, Xbox," Brendon says two weeks later, thumbing the power button on the controller as Spencer drops down next to him on the couch. "Your thoughts?"

"That depends," Spencer says, "on whether you're playing Eternal Sonata again."

"Noooo?" Brendon says, drawing the syllables out. The loading screen comes up, with a flurry of muted colors and a string quartet and maybe some floating hearts. Spencer glares.

"Okay, well, maybe. Shut up, I like it."

"It's an RPG about Chopin," Spencer says, a little desperately. He actually, secretly, kind of likes it too but Spencer refuses to give Brendon the satisfaction. "It's an RPG about Chopin, dying of consumption and fighting magical monsters in his opium dreams. How does that even get made."

"Because it's awesome, duh," Brendon says. "This character has a ninja throwing tambourine of death. Tell me that's not more badass than a plasma grenade."

"No," Spencer says. "No, that would be a lie."

"Ryan," Brendon calls over his shoulder into the kitchen area. "Ryan, plasma grenades or death tambourines, honest opinion."

"Death tambourines," Ryan says, not looking up from his laptop, long fingers skating over the keys. "Totally."

"Traitor," Spencer says.

"You just hate tambourines," Ryan says. "Don't front."

"Yeah, and joy," Brendon says, staring intently at the TV. He's programming his arsenal of magical musical sparking death attacks, or something. Spencer has never really understood Japanese RPGs in the first place. He'd believed for a long time that Final Fantasy was about a dude with a big sword and possibly blimps until Brendon had set him straight.

"You can play, you know, it's multiplayer if you want it to be," Brendon says, but Spencer just shakes his head. Brendon had tried explaining the combat system to him a few days ago; it's something to do with areas of light and dark and shifting planes of attack and multiple power sequences. It makes Spencer's head hurt a little too much to be considered a quality leisure time activity. Spencer's mostly just a big fan of plasma grenades and shooting things.

"No, it's cool, I just want to watch," Spencer says, looking at Brendon. Spencer winces the second the words leave his mouth. He doesn't--he really doesn't know when his brain-to-mouth filter became so thin. He keeps hearing shit come out of his mouth that sounds like a bad come-on and Spencer's pretty sure Brendon's starting to notice.

Brendon quirks an eyebrow at him and then shrugs. " 'kay," he says, but there's a slight question in it, a slight undertone of why are you being a spaz?

Spencer wishes he knew the answer to that question. His life would make a lot more sense right now if he did.

When Spencer looks at Brendon now, it's as if he sees two people, two silhouettes, their edges blurring together like a long exposure photograph. There's Brendon-that-dude-in-my-band, Brendon-who-steals-my-cereal-and-tries-to-stick-his-dirty-socks-in-with-my-laundry, but there's also someone else, someone that Spencer maybe doesn't know quite so well.

For the past two weeks Spencer keeps getting hit with it over and over, unexpectedly, the realization that maybe there's someone else hiding beneath all the jokes and wide smiles and sassy hip rolls, something that Brendon maybe doesn't show to just anyone. Brendon will tilt his head a certain way when they're outside and Spencer won't be able to stop looking at the curve of his neck, his sunburned shoulders and the soft hair on his arms. Or he'll be drinking and laughing at the same time, jaw stubbled and lips curved around the mouth of his beer and it shouldn't be sexual, it isn't sexual, but.

It's all a moot point anyway, Spencer thinks as he watches Brendon play. It doesn't matter that Spencer's having this weird sort-of crisis, that sometimes just watching Brendon laugh is enough to make Spencer's skin feel hot and too tight. It's just Spencer's luck to pick the one dude he knows for a fact has as many issues as Ryan does, even if Brendon keeps his wrapped up, farther down inside and not out onstage for everyone to hear.

Besides, Brendon's made his thoughts on the matter pretty clear. Spencer's not planning on forcing the issue.

 

The only thing that gives Spencer pause, the only thing that makes that tight, hot feeling jump into his chest every now and again is the way Brendon has starting looking back, sometimes. Brendon stares at him, wordless, like he's evaluating something, like he's measuring Spencer up to some arbitrary standard.

Spencer has no idea if he's passing Brendon's test; he has no idea what Brendon's evaluating him _for_. His head hurts from too many wordless conversations, and unlike when this sort of thing happens with Ryan, he has no idea what it is they aren't saying.

When it happens Spencer just stares back until Brendon drops his gaze, and hopes that's the right answer. He has no idea if it is.

*

[THIS TRANSITION NEEDS WORK. AS IN ANOTHER SCENE TO MAKE UP FOR THE SCENE I DELETED. WHOOPS.]

*

 

It happens on a Tuesday, somewhere between Albany and Chicago.

Spencer had been staring out the bus window, watching the highway flow past, an unbroken string of power lines and brief bursts of incandescent light. It's somewhere past 2am and Spencer can finally feel himself start to come down from the show, all his restless adrenaline starting to melt away under the never ending hum and rattle of the road. The bus windows are cold under his fingertips. Spencer's hands leave sheer white prints that fade almost instantly when he pulls his hands away.

Jon's fumbling around in the kitchenette, making something that smells like Easy Mac, and Spencer can hear the low murmur of Ryan's baritone coming from his bunk. He's probably on the phone with Keltie and Spencer would like to begrudge him his happiness, he really would, but he's not that much of an asshole. Spencer considers, very seriously, the option of getting up and convincing Jon to make him Easy Mac, but in the end he just gets up and heads back toward the bunks. There's light coming from the back lounge and Spencer pokes his head in, just to see what Brendon's doing.

"Spencer," Brendon says, stretched lengthwise along the entire back couch. "Spencer, come in here. I need moral support for this."

Spencer glances at the screen. "You need moral support to watch The Never-ending Story?"

"The empress is dying, okay."

"She's dying for the entire movie," Spencer says. "And then she gets reborn, or whatever. It's not sad if you know what happens."

"You're missing the point," Brendon says. "Just shut up and come here and enjoy the movie with me."

Brendon sits up, humming along with the music as Spencer goes to stretch out on the couch and Atreyu rides intently across a field in search of a cure for the empress. Brendon lays back down with his head in Spencer's lap and Spencer scratches behind Brendon's ears a few times, just saying hello. Brendon sort of snuggles a little into Spencer's thigh and it kind of sucks, honestly. It sucks that Brendon is just his friend, will never be anything other than his friend. Spencer's chest feels sort of vaguely hollow but the thought of getting up and leaving makes him feel worse, so he stays.

"I always wanted to be Atreyu," Brendon mutters into Spencer's thigh, back curved into the cushions of the couch. "He's all heroic and shit."

"I'm surprised your parents even let you watch this," Spencer says, stretching out to rest his arms on the back of the couch. "It's kind of dark and unwholesome for a kids movie, all that stuff about magic books and how life has no meaning."

Brendon shrugs, making a non-committal noise against his thigh. Spencer reaches down and flicks his ear.

Spencer doesn't actually remember falling asleep, but he wakes up with a start when the Gmork is howling in his cave at a wounded Atreyu, surrounded by swirling clouds of encroaching Nothing. This part always scared the crap out of him when he was a kid. He rubs his hand over his eyes and peers down at Brendon, still resting on his lap. Brendon's awake and already looking up at him, biting his lip with an concerned expression.

 _Huh_ , Spencer thinks blearily.

"Hey," Spencer says out loud. His voice comes out raspy. "What time is it, anyway?"

Brendon doesn't answer—he sort of half-shrugs, darting his eyes away and staring intently at the wall, then looking back up at Spencer, chewing on his lower lip all the while.

On-screen, Atreyu is waking up, tear-stained, on Falcor's back. Spencer opens his mouth to ask if Brendon's okay—seriously, he looks almost upset, and maybe he's just waiting for Spencer to notice or ask him about it or something—and Brendon leans up, supports himself on his elbows and brings his mouth to Spencer's, feather-light.

Spencer knows he's staring, but it takes until Brendon starts mumbling apologies and moving away to realize he's just sitting there, frozen solid with shock. There's a tiny thread of elation starting to wind its way up through his chest but he needs to—Spencer needs to—

"Whoa, hey, wait, Brendon," Spencer says, catching him by the arm. Brendon won't make eye contact and Spencer maybe tugs him back down onto the couch a little more forcefully than the situation wants. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing, Spence, seriously—"

"Nothing?"

"Let's just say it was a joke, you know, ha-ha, seriously, I'm sorry, I just thought that maybe you were, I was getting—" Brendon's wincing, cheeks red and Spencer's pretty sure he needs to do _something_ before this conversation heads in the wrong direction. He catches Brendon's chin, swallowing Brendon's half-hearted denials.

Brendon's mouth is soft and when Spencer parts Brendon's lips with his tongue, he tastes sweet. Brendon pulls back just a little, enough so that his words are still just air in Spencer's mouth. "Spence," he says, "You're—is this, I mean, can we—"

"Yeah," Spencer breathes out, pulling Brendon back in, letting his hand cradle the base of Brendon's skull as they kiss. He can touch, now, Spencer realizes, and he curls his fingers, runs his nails over Brendon's scalp and feels Brendon swallow hard. Brendon kisses spit-slick and a little clumsy and Spencer just wants _moremoremore_.

Brendon's still sort of leaning over him awkwardly and Spencer wraps a hand around his upper bicep and tugs at the same time Brendon moves forward and Brendon ends up on his lap. He blinks quickly, eyes wide and lips a little swollen. Spencer pulls him in again, slides a hand down to Brendon's lower back and pushes and yes, there, now Brendon's straddling him and it's closer to what Spencer wants but still not quite enough. Brendon bites his lip and smiles a little and leans in again, rests his arms on Spencer's shoulders and kisses him lazily. Spencer lets him.

Spencer knows, in the back of his mind, that the door to the lounge is still wide open, that this isn't really the time or the place. Jon and Ryan are probably asleep, but. He isn't sure what's going on or whether this is a one time deal (Spencer hopes, _hopes_ that it isn't but two hours ago he'd been utterly convinced Brendon was straight) or what, but he forces himself to pull back, removes his hands from where they're cupping Brendon's hipbones entirely without his permission.

"We should," Spencer tries. "The door. It's—we either need to stop doing this right here or close the door." He's giving Brendon an out, he realizes suddenly. He's giving him the chance to walk away or maybe say _hey, I was just curious_ but Brendon doesn't seem like he's interested in taking it and that's a surprise, also. Spencer wonders just how wrong he was, how many things he's been missing lately, wrapped up in his own head.

Brendon ignores him, pressing forward against him and licking into his mouth a little slow and a little dirty. He's starting to grind down slightly on Spencer, hips shifting his weight, little teasing presses of his thighs and it's really fucking distracting. Spencer feels like he's slightly out of his depth, here. He's used to being the one sort of running the show, so to speak, and Brendon's kind of forcing him to throw that particular rulebook out the window. Spencer is starting to get the impression that Brendon needs a fair bit of persuasion to get him to do what you want him to do, which, okay, isn't really that surprising. Spencer should probably have guessed that one beforehand.

Spencer kisses back and works a hand into Brendon's hair, instead, waiting until Brendon pauses to take a breath and then pulling, just enough so that Brendon can feel it, so that he's forced to move back with Spencer's hand. "The door," Spencer repeats. "Do you want me to close it?"

Brendon cuts his eyes away and down, licking his lips. Spencer just waits, letting his own breathing even out and every once and a while darting his eyes over Brendon's shoulder to make sure no one's stumbling back to their bunk and peering in.

"No," Brendon says finally, softly.

"Um," Spencer says.

"No, I don't want you to close it," Brendon says, finally meeting Spencer's eyes. He's got a familiar look on his face and Spencer's can feel his eyes widen as he recognizes it. It's that same look of _evaluation_ and now Spencer's maybe beginning to have an idea what it means, what he might have been saying in all those wordless conversations. Part of Spencer wants to push Brendon off, turn the lights on and try and figure out what the hell is going on. He's apparently been reading Brendon wrong all this time and Spencer's a little thrown, to be honest, with the kissing thing and now this, Brendon looking at him like he's waiting for something.

"I'm going to get up and close it halfway," Spencer says finally. His voice is rough and it takes him a minute to recognize it as his own. "I won't shut it or latch it."

Brendon nods, eyes large and dark.

Walking across the room is awkward but Spencer manages it, peering around the door before he pushes it closed halfway. The bunk area is dark and silent and he's almost positive the rest of the bus is asleep but they're going to need to be extra quiet. Something in him flares up at that, at the thought of seeing how far he could push Brendon before he got too loud. Spencer tries not to think of it as a challenge.

He sits back down on the couch, wondering if _this_ is when it gets awkward, but Brendon just sort of slides into his lap, mouth back on Spencer's almost immediately. Brendon's a little rougher now, a little less hesitant and Spencer responds in kind, tensing his fingers so that when he slides his hand up Brendon's back and back down again it's less of a caress and more of a scratch.

Brendon makes these weird little rumbling noises in his throat when Spencer bites down on his neck, a cross between a purr and a growl. It shouldn't be hot but Spencer can feel his dick twitching in his jeans because Brendon just keeps grinding down on him, these tiny, teasing circles that are driving Spencer insane. Brendon's being a fucking tease and Spencer could have predicted that, sure, but knowing it abstractly and being subjected to it are apparently two different things.

Spencer drags his nails harder down Brendon's back and Brendon arches, shooting a quick glance at the open doorway and it's almost like he wants someone to wake up, Spencer thinks dumbly, brain stupid and slow. It's almost like—something connects, then, something sizzles and pops and oh, _oh, maybe._

"You need to stay quiet," Spencer murmurs in his ear, winding a path with his tongue and nipping every few inches. "Or they might wake up and hear you."

"Yes," Brendon gasps softly, and Spencer doesn't know if he means _yes, they might wake up_ or _yes, i want them to hear us, i want them to see._

"What if I told you to stay quiet," Spencer says, words tumbling out into Brendon's mouth. He doesn't really know what he's doing but fuck, fuck, the look on Brendon's face is worth it. They can talk about it in the morning and there's time to worry about it later, when Brendon isn't rubbing off against him, panting. "What if I told you couldn't make any noise, no matter how badly you wanted it."

"Fuck," Brendon whispers, "Shit, Spencer, can I," and he's rubbing his knuckles under Spencer's shirt, skin on Spencer's bare stomach and Spencer just _wants_ and Brendon's fingers are so, so clever. Spencer knows this; he's watched them hundreds of times, during concerts and on guitar hero controllers, and the thought of them around his cock makes him shiver.

Spencer runs one hand up to catch Brendon's jawline, thumb pressing in the secret hollow just under his chin. He leans in and bites Brendon's neck, scraping teeth over Brendon's ear, alternating sharp and soft and tongue. "I thought I just told you to stay quiet," Spencer murmurs, fingers digging in just enough to make Brendon's throat catch. He's not blocking Brendon's airflow or anything—his fingers are splayed lengthwise along the side of Brendon's neck, not wrapped around it—but he can still feel how every breath Brendon's taking is stuttered, uneven. Brendon bites his lip and nods, trying to snake a hand between them, palm cupping over Spencer's dick. Spencer exhales in a _whoosh_ when Brendon presses down, strokes him firmly through his jeans. Brendon's palm is warm and slightly damp, even through the thick fabric. There's no illumination in the room other than the blue light from the tv and everything between them, every kiss and touch and breath seems slightly unreal. Brendon's cheeks are flushed.

Spencer continues talking almost into Brendon's ear, letting his voice rumble low and honeygravelled. _quiet quiet quiet_ , he thinks, and he knows that Brendon knows the door's still open, sees him check out of the corner of his eye and lick his lips. Spencer doesn't have a problem with noise during sex but everything feels more intense like this, his senses heightened, his awareness vibrating painfully sharp in the few inches between them and the rest of the room fading out into a blur.

"What do you want," Spencer murmurs, testing Brendon, and he's gratified when Brendon stays quiet and just squeezes him, rubs his thumb down along the outline of Spencer's cock. Brendon leans forward, licks his tongue into Spencer's mouth and starts trying to undo his belt with one hand but Spencer stops him, fingers firm around Brendon's wrist. "That's fine," Spencer says. "We can do that, but," Spencer tips Brendon's chin up, forces him to make eye-contact, "I want you to tell me what you want, first." Spencer's kind of feeling his way through this as they go along, but he's not prepared for the blush that blooms over Brendon's cheeks, the way Brendon's eyes darken just a little.

Spencer can't help it—he reaches out again, rubs his thumb across Brendon's lower lip, shiny with spit, pressing in. "Don't talk," Spencer says, "Don't say anything, just show me."

Spencer pulls his fingers back, intending to give Brendon room but Brendon follows Spencer's hand with his mouth, catching Spencer's index finger with his teeth, curling his tongue around the very tip. Spencer exhales softly and Brendon leans forward, curling his tongue around Spencer's fingers and sucking two of them into his mouth, keeping his hands flat on his thighs. Brendon works his fingers with a dirty rhythm, all tongue and suction and innuendo and it's fucking distracting. Spencer pulls his fingers away, slides them down Brendon's stomach, angling to get at Brendon's cock still trapped in his jeans but Brendon shakes his head, leaning in to nip at Spencer's neck at the same time he grabs Spencer's wet hand and guides it to his back, leaves it resting on the swell of his ass, and oh, _okay_ , holy shit, Spencer thinks numbly.

Spencer's done that a few times, done far more, but it's not the sort of thing he would normally be suggesting the first time he hooked up with someone; it's not a liberty he's used to taking on the first go-around. Brendon licks his neck and Spencer has to suppress a shiver, trailing his wet fingers farther down Brendon's spine. He did ask, though, he thinks. He did look Brendon in the eye and ask him what he wanted and maybe it's just that Brendon trusts him enough to ask for this, maybe he knows that Spencer isn't the type to freak out or run away. Spencer files it away to think about later, when he doesn't have his hand down the back of Brendon's pants.

He pushes Brendon off his lap gently, keeping one hand on his hip as he straightens Brendon up and starts to work on getting the rest of his clothing off. He considers just shoving his jeans down to his knees but he really wants Brendon back on his lap, likes watching the expressions flit across his face, likes the feeling of Brendon's stuttered breaths on his skin. He can't have that if Brendon's legs are caught in his pants, so he tugs them all the way down, leaving Brendon to kick them off. He shimmies out of his own jeans, too, leaving his boxers on because Spencer suspects that if they're skin to skin, Brendon on his lap, this is going to be over far too quickly. He needs a layer of fabric between them, however thin.

Brendon moves forward as soon as Spencer's settled, arranging himself on Spencer's lap with an easy sort of grace, completely naked and there's so much _skin_ in front of Spencer, all of a sudden, he can't seem to stop staring or touching or breathing Brendon in. Brendon cants his hips a little bit when Spencer's hands slide down his sides, draws in a sharp breath when Spencer presses him down with thumbs firm on his hipbones and Spencer knows Brendon's getting off on it, the feeling of Spencer watching him, the feeling of being on display.

"God, you're so..." Spencer mutters, unable to help himself, unable to finish the sentence. _Gorgeous_ , his mind supplies, because it's true, Brendon in this light is all pale skin and rough jaw and subtle curves but his mind also comes up with _overwhelming_ , and maybe that's closer to the truth. This whole thing is overwhelming and Spencer feels like he's going to need a week just to process but right now he's just running on instinct and lust and maybe a little bit of fear. Spencer's pretty sure there's nothing in the world that would convince him to stop this right now, save maybe Ryan or Jon walking into the room.

Spencer pushes his fingers back into Brendon's mouth, letting Brendon get them sopping wet with spit before trailing them up the back of Brendon's thighs, feeling him twitch a little at the sensation. Spencer presses up against him, teasing, feels Brendon give a little under his fingers, open up a little and Spencer drags a rough hand over Brendon's cock at the same time and Brendon shakes, _actually_ shakes. Spencer can feel it everywhere Brendon's touching him and he's suddenly, feverently glad for his ability to multi-task. Spencer has a feeling Brendon isn't going to last long, and since he can't be bothered to stop and find lube he's trying to be very careful, just teasing touches and the tip of his finger, letting Brendon's body set the pace, but he's working Brendon's cock with a punishing, steady rhythm. Brendon digs his teeth into his lip and god, Spencer realizes he's close, all of a sudden, just from the friction of Brendon on his lap, from the tight, warm clench of him around his fingers, from watching Brendon get off barely inches in front of him. Spencer also realizes that when Brendon comes he's going to come on Spencer's stomach and his own gut clenches up at the thought of that, want and need and _nownownow_ and he speeds up his hand, crooking his fingers inside Brendon as Brendon keens because damned if he's coming before Brendon does without anyone touching him.

Brendon's eyes fly open like he wants to say something and he looks almost surprised as he comes, surprised and young, lips parted slightly. Spencer groans as Brendon comes all over his stomach, tugging his fingers out and pulling Brendon in roughly, forcing him to grind down on Spencer's cock even as Brendon's still shaking through his orgasm, biting Spencer's mouth frantically. Brendon pulls back and he looks like he wants to speak again, like he's hesitating and Spencer's so close, brain sparking in dizzy waves but something makes it through the haze, something connects, and Spencer gasps out "you can talk now," and Brendon whines into his mouth, whispering "Spencer, Spencer, Spence, fuck, I want see you—come on—" and Spencer does, he can't do anything else. It crashes over him in waves and Spencer isn't aware of anything else for a few breathless minutes, but he eventually has to open his eyes. Brendon's gone utterly still on top of him.

"Well, shit," Spencer said finally, after the silence has stretched on too long, mouth against Brendon's sweaty temple. He can feel everything cooling, sticky and strange and he's suddenly uncomfortable. _Overwhelmed_ , he thinks again, and yeah. Spencer feels a little like he got hit with a sex truck.

"Yeah," Brendon agrees, pushing his hair off his forehead and biting his lip. "Yeah, definitely."

*

 

They don't talk about it the next day, because they move from early morning radio interview to breakfast to mid-morning interview to lunch to venue to sound-check to show, all very neatly and smoothly and running like clockwork and Spencer would normally be gratified, if he hadn't had kinky sex with his lead singer last night (well, early this morning) with absolutely no warning and no discussion.

Brendon had stood up after, wiped his hand off on one of Ryan's shirts (a fact that Spencer realizes, now, is perhaps ironic in the extreme), sort of kissed Spencer clumsily on the temple and then gone from bathroom to his bunk. _Sorry,_ Brendon had said, _It's just, it's like five am and we need to be up at seven—_ and Spencer had waved him off, too tired all of a sudden to even move from the back lounge. He'd fallen asleep in his clothing and woken up sticky and disoriented and Ryan had yelled at him for hogging the bathroom and Spencer couldn't even explain why he'd needed to take so long.He endured Ryan's ribald comments about the state of his digestive tract and kept his mouth tightly shut, as if he was afraid _sorry, I had to wash Brendon's come out of my boxers_ might spill out accidentally.

(Jon siddled up to him at one point, coffee firmly in hand, squeezing Spencer's shoulder. "Are you okay?" he said, eyes quiet and concerned. "You're a little...something...today," he said with a handwave.

"I'm tired," Spencer said. "Brendon tricked me into watching The Neverending Story with him, I got like 2 hours of sleep."

"Oh sweet," Jon said. "I mean, not sweet that you only got 2 hours of sleep, but I love that movie."

"Yeah, it was good," Spencer said awkwardly. Lying by omission seemed safer than a straight-out lie.)

There was no time to talk about it until later, much later, when Spencer was almost dead on his feet after the show and Jon and Ryan had gone off to the back lounge to argue about the OC. Spencer didn't even realize he was zoning out until Brendon was waving a hand in front of his face and Spencer jerked back, surprised.

"Hey," Brendon says. "Hey, you want to play some Halo 3?"

Spencer frowns. He knows there is a conversation they should be having but it seems so far away, thoughts tripping over one another. Spencer doesn't know what he wants to say, feels sure if he tries now nothing will come out right and that seems almost worse than not talking about it at all. Spencer feels like both of them are a little raw, somehow, like they managed to rip each other open and maybe spill out parts of themselves they hadn't quite been ready for each other to see. It's weird and good and unsettling, but right now it's just too much.

"Yeah," Spencer said instead. "Yeah, let's play some Halo, I'm going to kick your ass."

*

 

When a week passes and there's still no discussion Spencer starts to think that maybe that was it, that maybe they just _aren't_ going to talk about it and it was just a one-time deal, Brendon needing something and finding Spencer a likely target, and oh well, poor Spencer, he got some seriously amazing sex out of the deal. It sucks but Spencer's starting to think maybe it's better this way, even though Brendon is now more distracting, not less. Part of Spencer's mind had suspected that maybe this was just an itch he needed to scratch, a temporary obsession that would pass when he got what he wanted and satisfied his curiosity.

(It isn't.)

Brendon siddles up to his kit one night on stage, while Ryan's bantering clumsily with the audience. The stage lights slant across his cheekbones, wide swaths of yellows and blues and Spencer has to clutch his drumsticks tightly so he doesn't try to reach out and touch. He nods at Brendon's inane comment, smiles back when Brendon smiles, and ignores the weird bubbly feeling in his chest, the feeling of wanting to bolt far, far away from the venue, away from this mess he's created for himself. He doesn't watch Brendon as he walks away, hips swinging, and he stares at the back of Ryan's greasy mop of hair instead.

Spencer has almost come to terms with his course of action, in a resigned sort of way, when Brendon tugs him into a supply closet somewhere in Iowa, pushing him back up against the wall and settling on his knees.

"What," Spencer says, bewildered—he's still got his drink in his hand, for fuck's sake, a fountain pepsi from the venue box office, and there's nowhere to put it down except the floor. Brendon reaches up, pries the drink out of Spencer's fingers and sets it down carefully. He smirks up at Spencer. "I don't want you to dump it on my head," he says, fingers working and tugging and arranging.

Spencer's still six steps behind and he can't quite catch up. "I thought we weren't doing this," he says, " _shit_ , Brendon," and Brendon hmmm's around the head of Spencer's cock. He doesn't go down very far, using mostly his hands, lots of tongue but not a lot of suction. Spencer isn't complaining. He wonders, belatedly, if the door is locked and then realizes with a jolt, a warm curl in his spine that it probably isn't.

"You, " Spencer tries, mouth slow and heavy. "This is—"

"Hmmm?" Brendon says, pulling off, speeding up his hand. The sound of him jacking Spencer off seems overly loud in the tight, confined space.

"Why didn't you—" _tell me,_ Spencer thinks, _why aren't we talking about this, we need to talk about this_ but he's past the point of verbalizing, Brendon's hand quick and clever on him, slick with spit and just, just right. Spencer's legs tense up and he bucks forward and Brendon leans in, letting Spencer come just inside his mouth. Spencer almost cracks his head against the wall.

Brendon pulls his mouth off again while Spencer's still twitching, spitting into his palm and then searching around for a rag. "Sorry," Brendon says apologetically, "It's not you, I just, I really don't like the taste."

"That's okay," Spencer mutters weakly. "I'm not offended." He wonders why Brendon did it at all but then realizes that yeah, they're in their stage clothing. Spencer doesn't want to have to explain away those kind of stains.

(He wonders how Brendon knows he doesn't like the taste of come. God, he really needs to talk to Brendon.)

Brendon stays on his knees, pulling himself out of his pants and biting his lip at the first few passes of his hand over the head of his cock. Spencer sinks down and reaches forward but "no time," Brendon says, "we're on in thirty, just let me take care of it," so Spencer just kisses him while he does it, keeps one hand in his hair and one around his hip, thumb sliding over the curve of Brendon's hipbone, pressing in, a faint sense-echo of the last time.

It doesn't take Brendon long, maybe five minutes at most, before he gasps into Spencer's mouth again, bites Spencer's lower lip and comes with a little whine, angling his body so his come splashes on the concrete floor and not all over Spencer's pants. Spencer reaches out blindly with one hand and grabs the rag, wiping up the floor while Brendon's still clinging to him, shaky breaths into Spencer's mouth. Spencer finally pulls away when Brendon settles. He chucks the rag into a trash can across the room.

"We need to talk about this," Spencer says, wincing a little as he gets up from the floor. His knees are sore and Brendon's probably feel worse.

"Later," Brendon says, pulling open the door. "Maybe later."

*

Ryan sinks down next to him on the couch in the back lounge that night, after the show, and Spencer almost, _almost_ opens his mouth and tells him. He's sick of dancing around the issue, sick of not knowing what's going on with him and Brendon but he has no idea how Ryan will react. Spencer's usually pretty good at predicting Ryan's emotions, good at reading Ryan's thoughts and moods but this is sort of uncharted territory.

Spencer zones out instead, watching an episode of whatever-it-is that's playing on the tv, some interchangable Law and Order type show. He's just starting to follow the plot and get invested in finding out who the killer was when Ryan nudges him. Spencer looks over and Ryan's scrawling wide, uneven spirals on the corner of his notebook, looking meditative.

"Hmm?" Spencer says.

"You're different," Ryan says. "Something's changed, something's like, going on with you or something."

"No, I'm not pregnant," Spencer says. "But thanks for your concern."

Ryan looks over at Spencer, peering at him like he's a particularly challenging crossword puzzle, one with a lot of blank spaces and SAT Prep words, the kind that requires a pencil. Spencer raises an eyebrow. "Seriously, what" he says.

Ryan taps his pen against his teeth. "Are you...are you _fucking_ someone?"

"What, like right now?"

"No, I mean..." Ryan trails off. "You are, aren't you," Ryan accuses. "You're totally getting laid and you didn't tell me."

"Uh," Spencer says. He wants to deny it and he knows he should, knows that this is a terrible idea but Spencer's kind of the reached the end of his rope.It's been almost 2 months, at this point, that this weird thing-not-thing has been going on, since Spencer woke up to Brendon sliding his hips against the sheets in that dark hotel room. Spencer badly needs a second opinion. To be perfectly fair, he probably needed a second opinion way before Brendon started blowing him in supply closets.

"Are you going to tell me?" Ryan asks. Spencer just stares at him blankly. He tries to open his mouth but nothing comes out, just a long exhale. Ryan waves a hand, like it doesn't matter that Spencer's finding himself suddenly unable to form sentences. "Okay, whatever, process of elimination, I can figure it out."

Spencer raises an eyebrow and Ryan just shrugs. "There aren't that many girls on tour," he says. "Oh, oh shit, are you fucking the merch girl?"

"What," Spencer says. " _No_."

"That girl, she's really cool but I don't actually know her name, you know, with the hair and the—" Ryan makes a hand motion that Spencer suspects is intended to mean curvy but comes across as _octopus._ "She's pretty hot."

"I'm not boning the merch girl, what the fuck," Spencer says.

"Too bad," Ryan says. "For you."

"Blow me," Spencer says.

Ryan isn't giving up, though. He goes through a stream of increasingly unlikely prospects and Spencer just sort of glares at him tiredly. It's like he wants Ryan to know but he doesn't want to have to say it. It's not that he's ashamed of Brendon, or what they're doing, but speaking it aloud feels like something heavy, still a little overwhelming. Spencer just doesn't know if he's there yet. He wishes he even knew if it was his secret to tell.

"...and it's obviously not me," Ryan says.

"Obviously," Spencer says. "You'd probably remember that. I would _hope_ you would remember that."

"And it's not Jon, and it's not Bren...." Ryan trails off.

"It's not," he says hesitantly, looking at Spencer intently. "Spence."

"Um." Spencer says. "No?" It comes out as far more of a question then Spencer really intends.

"Wow." Ryan says, sitting back. He doesn't look angry, or upset, but he does look _surprised_. "Holy shit, really?"

"It's not a big thing," Spencer mumbles. "It's only like—a couple of times."

"Huh." Ryan says. "I just thought you—I thought you didn't—That's cool though. I mean. I just didn't think that you. Anymore."

Spencer nods, understanding most of what Ryan was trying to say. Ryan's known since the beginning, since they were sixteen and Spencer had said _maybe, I think, do you want to try..?_ and Ryan had said _okay, yeah, we can, let's try._ They had laid on Ryan's bed facing each other and made out for a little while, only touching where Spencer was holding Ryan's jawline and Ryan's hand was gripping Spencer's wrist, holding on. Spencer had thought _oh, oh, yes, okay, i like this,_ but Ryan had pulled away and made a face and Spencer was only a little bit hurt when Ryan told him two weeks later he was definitely straight.

It's not like Ryan would have made it into an issue anyway, but they haven't really talked about it much since then. Spencer's major relationships have always been with girls and while there's been a few guys scattered in between, Spencer has never really felt a need to tell Ryan the specific details of his one-night stands.

Spencer considers himself like, a 2 on the Kinsey scale. In general he tends to prefer women over men. Right now he apparently prefers Brendon over everyone.

"It's kind of weird," Spencer says out loud. "I mean, I thought he was straight."

Ryan snorts at that, but keeps his mouth shut.

"No, really," Spencer says. "Remember that pillow thing he did? I thought it was like, a gay freakout."

"Brendon's a little fucked up sometimes," Ryan says. "I don't know if you noticed."

"He's not—" Spencer says, opening his mouth to defend Brendon automatically and then snapping it shut when he realizes. _Wow_ , Spencer thinks. _I have it bad._

"You have a thing for him, don't you" Ryan says. "Don't lie, you almost just defended him just now."

"Shut up," Spencer says. "Anyway, I just. I didn't know, so I assumed it was just me, and now there's this thing, and it's weird." He doesn't bother denying Ryan's accusation that there's more to it than just sex. It seems pointless, and anyway, Ryan's kind of right.

"I sort of always thought..." Ryan says, trailing off and picking up his pen again to start a complicated cross-hatching pattern in the margins of his notebook. "I mean. He would go off with guys sometimes. He did it last tour."

Spencer frowns. He has vague memories of Brendon sneaking off with some nameless, faceless dudes, but. "I thought he was just making new friends," Spencer said. "Friends who had weed and didn't want to share."

"I don't know," Ryan says, shrugging. "I never asked him or anything. He was just always kind of shady about it."

Spencer thinks about it, thinks about Brendon's bright eyes and furtive shoulders as he would sneak off, some guy's hand on his shoulder or arm around his neck. Thinks about Brendon's predilection for open doors and storage closets and yeah, Ryan's probably right.

"Okay," Spencer says, processing that thought, letting it settle. "Do you think he's like, ashamed of it?"

"I don't know," Ryan says dryly. "You're the one fucking him, you tell me."

"We're not really fu..." Spencer starts, and Ryan waves a hand again. "Semantics," Ryans says. "Also I have no idea, how the hell should I know what Brendon's thinking."

"He won't talk to me about it," Spencer says. "He keeps blowing me off, I don't know." The 'and _I don't really want to stop what we're doing'_ is left unsaid, but Spencer knows that Ryan hears it just the same.

Ryan's silent for a long moment, staring out blankly into nothing. Spencer waits.

"I think," Ryan says finally. "I think you should sit him down and make him talk to you. Shit's already a little weird, but," Ryan shrugs, "You're good at fixing things, you can work it out."

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, maybe, okay. You're not worried about the band?" Spencer's pretty worried about the band. So far their shows have been great, maybe even a little bit better than usual, but he can imagine how this could fuck everything up pretty easily. There's a reason you're not supposed to date your co-workers, not to mention the fact that if this ends badly he and Brendon will still be forced to live practically on top of one another.

"No," Ryan says. "Like I said, you'll figure it out. Brendon sucks at holding grudges, anyway. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Don't say that, " Spencer says, fully aware of exactly what the 'worst' entails. "Don't joke about that, it's not funny. And when did you get all zen and shit? Usually we're having this conversation the other way around."

Ryan shrugs. "Jon," he says, like that's not his explanation of everything, up to and including why the sky is blue and why Spencer can never find two clean, matching socks despite the fact that he owns roughly twenty-seven pairs. "Also, a lot of weed." Ryan adds as an afterthought. "Hey, you want to smoke? I can pack this bowl."

Spencer is sorely tempted, he really is, but Brendon and Jon will be back soon and he sort of just wants to go lie in his bunk and think for a while, maybe figure out exactly what the hell he's going to say to Brendon if and when they have this theoretical conversation about what they're theoretically doing, this conversation they should have had weeks ago and Spencer's let slide for far too long.

"I'm good, " Spencer says. "Thanks, though." He means _thanks for everything_ , really, but he's also sure Ryan knows exactly what he means and that saying it out loud is unnecessary.

"No problem," Ryan says easily. "Hey, Spence, hand me that lighter?"

 **[END OF OLD SECTIONS THAT STILL NEED TO HAVE THE EDITS TRANSFERRED INTO THIS DOC]**  
*

 

Spencer has come to exactly three conclusions the next morning.

The first is that despite what he said last night to Ryan, he's not sure he could stop doing whatever it is they are doing, even if it _did_ mean fucking up the band. It's a mildly unsettling thought.

The second is that somehow he needs to convince Brendon to tell him his sexual history, which is problematic, to say the least.

Spencer's thought long and hard about the first time they hooked up, thought back to the little gestures and the look in Brendon's eye, the way he was so surprisingly comfortable with everything, pushing Spencer forward, and Spencer's come to the conclusion that Brendon is possibly way more experienced in this than Spencer is and is just really good at hiding it.

It's not that Spencer doesn't trust Brendon—he does, to an almost disturbing degree—but Brendon is notorious for not always looking before he leaps and Spencer doesn't know what he's done, who he's been doing this with. If Spencer's suspicious are correct then Brendon hasn't been practicing particularly safe sex. Spencer has no idea how to ask Brendon without seeming to imply that Brendon's been sleeping around.

Spencer is just—if they're going to do all the things that Spencer wants to do, he really needs to know that they're both clean and on the same page. If he has to force the conversation, he'll force the conversation.

The third is that Spencer needs to do some research. If Brendon's really looking for what Spencer suspects he's looking for, well. There are a lot of things he wants to do to Brendon, the sort of things that he normally pushes down and away, keeps closed up and folded tight.

Not hidden, precisely, just waiting for the right time, the right person.

 

*

"Is this a date?" Brendon asks, as soon as they've been seated by the hostess in a smallish corner table. The restaurant is pretty packed, waiters rushing past their table with trays and refilling drinks with harried precision.

"No," Spencer says, flipping open his menu. He glances up and catches sight of the EATIN' GOOD IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD! sign behind Brendon's left shoulder, garish and neon in the early afternoon light. "I don't take people on dates to Applebees."

"Right, I forgot, you're all classy and shit," Brendon says. "Seriously, though."

"Seriously, no," Spencer says. "Why, do you want it to be?" He's being flippant but something feels kind of weird in his chest as soon as the words leave his mouth, because it could be, maybe. Spencer wishes he'd thought this through before he suggested food. Fucking Brendon, and—well, and fucking Brendon. It's complicating things and Spencer's starting to get sick of it.

"No," Brendon says quickly. "I don't know. Wait, I asked you first."

"I was hungry, Brendon," Spencer says. "And this place happens to serve food. My ulterior motives are pure."

The waiter comes by, a tall college student with short, dark hair whose handwritten name tag says CHRISTINE! in all caps. She has a sparkly purple gel pen, which she uses to jot down their drink orders. Brendon orders a rum and coke and a water. Spencer orders a ginger ale and then thinks better of it and changes his order to a beer.

"I have no idea what I want," Brendon says, staring at his menu and frowning. "I hate places like this, it's like, do I want steak, or ribs, or burgers, or fucking...tacos, even, and then it's like, oh, well, shit, what do you want on _that?_ "

"Your life, so hard." Spencer says. "That's why they have combo platters, douche."

"What are you getting?" Brendon says, flipping back and forth distractedly. Spencer leans over and yanks the menu out of Brendon's hand, laying it down flat on the table and leaving it open to the first page. "Pick one of those," Spencer says, pointing to the menu deal they're running. "You pick one and I'll pick one and then we get a free appetizer and it's like twenty bucks, it's not that hard Brendon, seriously."

"Buffalo wings?" Brendon says hopefully, looking up. "For the appetizer?"

"Yes," Spencer says. "Absolutely, I am so down with buffalo wings." He pauses. "Also, you're a shitty vegetarian."

"Uh-huh," Brendon says, chewing on his lip just a little and frowning. The waitress comes back and places their drinks in front of them, nodding once and smiling when Spencer asks for a little more time to decide.

"This is totally a date," Brendon says accusingly, once she's out of earshot. "Don't lie to me, Spencer Smith, this is totally the kind of thing that couples order. You're trying to woo me with free appetizers."

"Shit, you're that easy?" Spencer says. "I would have held out for dessert."

"Shut up," Brendon says, and his smile is far too awkward to be real.

"I didn't mean—" Spencer starts, and then stops because he has no idea what he wants to say. This is epically not the place for this conversation, but the restaurant is loud and noisy and Spencer had picked it for a reason. Despite their younger waitress, most of the people in here are families with young children or older couples. The chances of them being recognized seemed slim.

Spencer finally settles on "I don't think you're a slut," because it seems safe, and also, he doesn't. Mostly.

"Thanks," Brendon says, staring out the window and taking a sip of his drink, a pinched expression on his face. "Your opinion has been duly noted. Do you think we should take a poll?"

Spencer frowns, because what the fuck, seriously. He's trying, here. "I just meant—"

"I know what you meant," Brendon says. "Just don't, okay?"

Spencer leans in, lowering his voice. "You just keep avoiding me, what the hell am I supposed to think? Seriously, I don't get what the fucking problem is—"

The waitress comes back, clearing her throat as she approaches their table and both of them jump back, sitting up straight and trying not to look like they'd just been arguing. Or not-arguing. Whatever.

"Hi," Brendon says, smiling up at her, perfectly sunny and natural. It would be mildly upsetting if Spencer wasn't acutely aware of how good Brendon is at faking it. "I think we're going to have the special? So um, yeah, buffalo wings for the appetizer, and this one for me, medium well, everything on it—Spence?"

"Quesadilla burger, extra guacamole, no cheese," Spencer says. "Thanks."

The waitress leaves and Spencer watches as Brendon takes a long sip of his drink, not meeting Spencer's eyes, his mouth twisted with annoyance. Spencer opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Brendon cuts him off. "Can we just—can we talk about something else?"

"I'm not letting you weasel out of this," Spencer says.

"I noticed," Brendon says, and his voice is so flat, so controlled. It would be perfectly convincing if Spencer couldn't see that Brendon's hands are shaking, just a little. "I'm not doing this here, Spencer."

"Fine," Spencer says, pissed off out of all proportion to the conversation. He doesn't know why he's so angry but he _is—_ he wants to reach across the table and shake Brendon until he starts making fucking sense, stops talking in circles. He should be used to this sort of thing, he thinks. Considering Exhibit A—one George Ryan Ross—but then, he was never fucking Ryan. Ryan didn't surprise him with mixed signals and random blowjobs and then just fuck off and ignore Spencer like _Spencer_ was the crazy one for wanting some sort of explanation.

There's a lot of things Spencer had been practicing last night, in his own head, shut up tight in his bunk while he tried to figure his shit out, what he wants to say to Brendon. There's a lot of things they need to say to each other but what comes out is, "Why are you being such a douche about this?"

"Fuck you," Brendon says. "Why are you being such a _girl?_ " His body language is tense, screaming _go away and leave me alone_ louder than Brendon ever could with his voice.

"Brendon, we can't just—" Spencer pitches his voice lower, leaning in slightly. "We can't just do the kind of shit we've been doing without talking about it, that's how people get completely fucked up and end up in like, therapy."

"Yes, you can," Brendon mutters. "It's been working fine for me."

Spencer gives him a long, even look, one that says _it's been working fine, huh?_ and Brendon glares.

"Shut up," he says, even though Spencer hasn't said anything. "Fine, god, we'll stop, I didn't realize it was such a big _issue_ for you."

"That's not what I meant," Spencer says, frustrated. "Why are you so—" He pauses, brain working and something suddenly slots into place, something Ryan had said about Brendon and Brendon's past and what he knows about Brendon's habits. "You haven't..." Spence says slowly, letting the pieces settle into place. "You haven't done this before, have you?"

"What, have weird, fucked-up sex?" Brendon shoots back. "I thought I'd made it kind of obvious that I'm not some fucking vir—"

"No, talked about it," Spencer says. "You just go off with people that you never have to see again, don't you, and then you don't have to."

Spencer watches as Brendon's eyes widen and he knows, with a sudden searing clarity, that he's hit the nail directly on the head. Brendon shakes his head, like he can will away whatever Spencer's thinking, but Spencer knows he's won when Brendon spits out, "Whatever, fuck you. If you think I'm such a slut—" Spencer knows it's a last ditch attempt. Brendon doesn't take potshots when he's angry; he takes them when he's scared.

"No," Spencer says. "Brendon, shut up for a second. I'm just trying to—that's it, isn't it. You think this is like, wrong for some reason, or you're freaking out because no one's ever tried to talk about it with you and that's why you're so defensive right now, that's why you keep avoiding me."

[waitress brings their food]

The waitress leaves and Spencer watches as Brendon takes a long sip of his drink, not meeting Spencer's eyes, his mouth twisted with anger. "I'm right, aren't I," Spencer says. "What are you so afraid of?"

"You don't get it, do you," Brendon says. "This is all just some game for you, something new and exciting to get off on, 'oh, let's sit around and make Brendon squirm and talk about how he's so fucked up in bed.' " Brendon's gesturing with the hand that's holding his drink, causing it to slosh alarmingly against the side of the glass and Spencer reaches over carefully, taking hold of Brendon's wrist and setting it down. He holds on for a moment too long before he lets go.

"No," Spencer says carefully, willing Brendon to understand. "Listen. I don't think you're fucked up."

"Huh." Brendon says flatly, meeting his eyes for the first time in the past ten minutes. "Because from here, it sure seems like you—"

"Brendon," Spencer says, and then shakes his head. He takes a long slug of his beer, and then he takes a deep breath and says quietly, while Brendon's still talking, "Four girls. Two guys."

"You just—what?" Brendon says, mid-rant.

"I"m just—" Spencer says, and then looks away. He doesn't know why this is suddenly so weird, when he's been pushing for this all along. "That's how many—people," he finishes awkwardly, glancing back up to see Brendon's reaction. "And I haven't—I'm not on an expert on this, Brendon. I just think we should—talk about it. I don't know what I'm doing, but I think, I." Spencer breaks eye contact. "I think I want to."

"You want to," Brendon says carefully. He's not quite glaring at Spencer, but it's close. There's something else there, though, something that gives Spencer the courage to just throw everything out there, to lay it out on the table for both of them to see.

"With you," Spencer says, and then hurries to correct himself when Brendon's eyes widen almost comically. "I'm not like—fuck, I'm not proposing marriage, you asshole. I just thought—you know. Maybe."

Brendon looks at him for a long moment, drink still clutched in his hand. "We're in an Applebee's," he says finally.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, we are."

"Okay," Brendon says. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that."

"Look," Spencer says, for what feels like the hundreth time. Brendon's starting to try his patience. He's starting to think this conversation was a bad idea, despite what Ryan said. Maybe it's time to just say _forget it_ , except Spencer has a sneaking suspicion he's already past that point. He just doesn't know what to say to make Brendon fucking _relax,_ stop acting like he's under a fucking inquisition. "I know you don't give a shit, and that's fine—"

"Fourteen," Brendon says suddenly, cutting him off. He's looking out the window again, but his voice is softer than before. "Four girls, ten guys. And I'll think about it."

*

Spencer's in the kitchenette making Ramen when Brendon comes up behind him and says, "Okay." And that's it—just, "okay," like Spencer is a mind-reader and knows exactly what the hell Brendon's talking about. Spencer sucks in a breath. He can feel his pulse jumping. On the stove, the water is almost to a roiling boil.

"Okay what?" Spencer says, tearing the packet open and keeping his back to Brendon. If he was a nice guy, he'd be making this easy for Brendon, because they both know what he's talking about. Spencer isn't feeling particularly nice at the moment.

"Fuck, you know," Brendon says tiredly. He moves away, crouching down on his heels to dig in the tiny fridge tucked underneath the stove. Spencer has to move over to let him in, and when he does so Brendon's hand brushes the side of his bare leg.

"There's this thing," Spencer says, poking at the block of noodles just starting to soften, "called communication. You really suck at it."

"I'm trying," Brendon mutters, pulling out a can of PBR. "Look. Fine. You want me to say it? I'll say it. Yes, Spencer. We can have lots of kinky sex and I'll sit down beforehand and tell you about all of my feelings."

"Brendon," Spencer says quietly, stilling his hand. The venom in Brendon's voice is still jarring, even after Spencer has seen what Brendon's like when he's feeling cornered. "You know I'm not doing this to embarrass you. I'm not your enemy. It was just an offer."

"I know," Brendon says, and pops the cap on his beer. He takes a long swallow, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He pauses for a minute. The only sound is the ticking of the weird alarm clock that Ryan bought, the orange one that has somehow ended up in the kitchen because Ryan says it's too loud and distracting anywhere else.

"This isn't easy," Brendon says eventually, looking anywhere than at Spencer. "I know I'm being a dick to you. You shouldn't have to put up with this."

"So don't be a dick," Spencer says, like it's that simple, that easy. He stirs the pasta one more time, and then turns around, facing Brendon. "I want you to do something for me, okay? Consider this a trial run."

Brendon looks at him for a moment, and then nods slowly. He's still clutching his beer like a security blanket.

"Tell me something I don't know," Spencer says simply. "About you. And bear in mind I'm not stupid, and I already know you like being watched, and you like it when people tell you what to do. And that's okay," he adds, belatedly. Spencer thinks about it for a moment, and then adds, "Tell me something, and I'll tell you something. And if you can't do it without being an asshole, this whole thing is off."

Brendon's silent for a moment. He leans up against the thin half-wall of the kitchenette, the one that provides a measure of privacy and a convenient splash-guard for the stove. He takes another long drink of his beer and then he says, "I like it when guys—when they're a little rough with me."

"Just guys?" Spencer says, cocking his head. He's not trying to be a jerk; he's actually curious.

"Well," Brendon says slowly, "I mean, not really, but. Girls have nails, you know? Audrey used to scratch the shit out of my back, and it was okay, but I'm not really like—I don't think I'm into," he takes a deep breath, "Pain."

"But you like it when guys throw you around a little," Spencer fills in.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "Your turn."

Spencer thinks about it for a second, and then leans back against the counter, propping himself up with his hands. "When I was a little kid," he says, "I used to have an imaginary friend, you know, like everyone did. But it was like—he was mine, you know? I made him, and I thought that meant I could tell him what to do. So I used to tell him when to eat, and when he could do things, and if he did it wrong I would...god, this sounds so weird, but I would like, punish him? Like I would make him stand in the middle of my room for hours and I'd go downstairs to eat and I'd just be like—happy. Thinking about him sitting up there, waiting for me to tell him what to do."

Brendon stares at Spencer for a minute, eyes wide, and then he makes a weird noise, sort of like a strangled laugh. Spencer raises an eyebrow at Brendon, and then Brendon just loses it, snickering helplessly into his beer.

"Spencer," Brendon says. "Oh my god, Spencer. That is _so fucked up._ "

"I was like, seven," Spencer says, rolling his eyes, trying and failing to keep a smile off his face. "I told you, dude. I get it."

"Wow," Brendon says. "And I thought I was the strange one."

"Hey," Spencer says mildly. He turns around and pulls the noodles off the burner, searching around on the cluttered countertop for the seasoning packet. "You know, insulting me probably isn't going to get you what you want."

**Author's Note:**

> [And then this scene ends and Brendon figures his stuff out and Spencer figures his stuff out and after some angst and some more soul-searching they have lots of happy kinky sex together. \o/]


End file.
